Elephant's Memory
by AllisonOfTheOpera
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has his hands full when heiress Clara Evangeline, who has her demons and (unknowingly) ties to Moriarty, walks into his life and his heart. Begins in between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker.
1. Introduction

"We forget half of what they teach us in school, but when it comes to the torment and the people who inflicted it, we've all got an elephant's memory."  
-_Criminal Minds_ 3x16, _Elephants Memory. _


	2. 1: Mother

_"_Julie! Hurry up!" Clara Evangeline called to one of her foster children, her dark brown eyes glistening in the early morning. The little girl hopped down the stairs, straightening her plaid skirt. Clara tutted.

"Can you tuck in Julie's shirt tail, Mary-Kate? There's a dear." A sixteen-year-old girl with hauntingly dark eyes and black hair nodded blankly, tucking the back of the six year old's shirt in.

"Why do we have to go to school?" Julie complained as the butler handed her a bowl of porridge. "Ryan doesn't have to!"

"Ryan is older than you, and he _will_ be going to school." Clara replied soothingly. "Mary-Kate, can you be a dear and go make sure that Katherine and Karen-"

"GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM!" A high pitched scream sounded from three floors above.

"Too late." Mary-Kate muttered, before Clara hurried up the staircase to discipline the twin girls who were now screaming at each other over the bathroom.

"Katherine! Karen! That's enough bickering out of you!" She said, tone filled with annoyance. Both immediately turned around, placing their hands behind their backs after straightening their matching dresses.

"Hello Miss Evangeline." They said respectfully, Katherine ending her sentence a half second after Karen.

The twins looked exactly alike, identical almost down to their finger prints. They had the same blonde hair that was usually French braided back, the eyes the color of rich dark chocolate. They had the exact same eyeglass prescription, the same dental problems, and they even got sick at the exact same time.

"We didnt know you would be here this morning." Karen said cautiously. With her business dealings and appearances as a socialite, Clara was never at home as much as she liked.

"You never know when I'll show up." She replied. "However, I've a reason to be here today. I've got to escort Ryan to Oxford in about..." She glanced at her watch. "Six hours." She glanced up and smiled as the sandy haired youth hurried towards her. "Ah, heres the man of the-"

"Hi, mom." Ryan called over his shoulder as he rushed past her and into his bedroom. The door slammed behind him.

"What's the rush?" Clara muttered, escorting the twins downstairs so that they could take their places at the long table. She took her own seat and watched as her children were served breakfast.

"He probably forgot to pack something." Katherine said, digging into her chocolate chip pancakes. Soon after, Ryan came out of his room behind them, ready to eat.

"Ah, there's my beach boy" Clara said warmly, gesturing to the seat to the right of the head of the table. The nickname was a reference to his hair color; it reminded her of the beach, and so she called him her beach boy. Clara herself sat at the head, and Herbert, her butler, brought her her usual breakfast: A small omlette with cheese and chives and a small strip of bacon. She placed her napkin in her lap and smiled at her odd family.

Each of these children had some sort of a gift or a bad hand dealt by life. The twins were both very intelligently gifted; Karen had a very high IQ for a thirteen-year-old and Katherine was a math whiz. Little Julie always saw more than what others could see; she was a budding psychic. Mary-Kate and Ryan had the most similar issues; the previous year, Mary Kate had witnessed her parent's double suicide, and when Ryan was twelve he had witnessed his parent's murder.

"Good morning, Ms. Evangeline." Susan, the children's live-in psychologist, said as she came down the stairs.

"Good morning." she replied. After she sat down, Clara addressed the therapist again. "So, Susan, what are your plans for the day with our ladies?" Clara said, crossing her ankles.

"Well, after they get home from school I thought we'd go out for ice cream." Everyone's faces lit up, except for Mary-Kate, who left her near permanenet blank expression on her face. Clara almost sighed; Mary was getting better very slowly, but she was leaps and bounds behind how Ryan had recovered.

Clara thought back to when she had taken Ryan into her care; he was an average twelve year old that had just gone through a large psychological trauma. She was in emotional shambles at that point in her life; the last member of her family was dead, and she had been left Evangeline Manor and well over one billion pounds from her parent's oil fortune. She had needed somebody, and Ryan was just that. Now, they were as close as mother and son.

"Ready for Uni?" She asked almost sorrowfully.

"Almost, mum." he replied, and she grinned when he called her mum.

She was only twenty six when she had adopted him- far too young to be his biological mother- but the fact that he called her his mother anyway always made her happy. She ruffled his sand colored hair, and he returned the favor by messing up her dark waves. She couldn't exactly stop him- he was two heads taller than she was and his arms were much longer than hers. Their family breakfast ended as the antique grandfather clock struck nine.

"Oh." she said, standing and brushing any stray hairs off of her pant legs. "Make my breakfast to go, Herbert; I need to go run a few errands and speak with the CEO of BROC today to see if he'll increase our allowance." She said, and one of the maids handed Clara her purse. "Susan, get the children off to school. Ryan, I'll be back in three hours to take you to Oxford. Alright?"

"Yeah, I understand." He said, standing up to give her a hug. She pecked his cheek, and then said goodbye to the rest of the children. Susan ushered them into the coat room as Clara slipped on her expensive designer trench coat.

"If I'm not back tonight, cancel my Wednesday and Thursday appointments."

"Yes, Ms. Evangeline. Your car is waiting."

"Thank you." She said, removing a fifty pound note from her purse and setting it in his hand. "That will be all."

"Yes, Miss Evangeline."

"John!" Sherlock Holmes moaned as he flopped against his couch cushions.

"What?"

"Well, for one, don't you _dare_ throw away those phalanges. It's an experiment." John Watson rolled his eyes, setting the bowl of finger bones back into the counter.

"What could that possibly be for?"

"I'm measuring how long it takes certain household agents to break down bone." He replied. "Is there a case?"

"No, Sherlock." The army doctor said gruffly as he settled down in his chair. It was close to ten o'clock in 221B Baker street, and a certain sociopathic detective was getting very bored without a case.

"I'm sure something will turn up." John said. "Didn't you just finish that case with the Gypsy and the Old Well?"

"That was this morning!" he replied hotly. "Bored!" he shouted at the ceiling.

"_Sherlock_." John warned.

"John, would you like to be turned into a human marionette?" Sherlock asked, eyes turning excited as he sat up.

"No." John replied quicker than lightning. He open the book he had been reading earlier.

"Were out of milk again." He muttered.

"Mmm."

"We could-" a sudden buzz echoed through the flat.

"Client!" Sherlock cried joyously, jumping out of his robe as he rushed down the stairs.

"Couldn't have come too soon." John muttered as Sherlock led someone wearing heels up the stairs. When he stood up to greet the client, he almost fainted.

"Hello!" Clara called as she stepped through the front door of the mansion, kicking off her stilettos. "Ryan?" there wasn't a sound in the entire house. "Ryan!" she called. There was no answer. "Ryan David Hope-Evangeline, you'd better get down here before I come up there!" it was silent. Herbert hadn't even greeted her.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. The manor was never this quiet. The kids were at school, Mary-Kate should be working with Susan, and the cleaning staff should have been working in the attic of the mansion.

To calm herself, she quickly ran up the stairs to make sure that Ryan wasn't playing around. The afternoon sun shone through the windows, illuminating the path ahead of her.

"Ryan?" she called, heading towards his room and opening the door. She stepped back in shock.

Ryan's room had been ransacked. Someone had knocked the lamp over and set it back upright, the huge bookshelf had been re organized, most likely due to someone tipping it over. The entire room seemed to be a little off. The books were slightly out of place, the furniture had been moved, certain areas of dust had been disturbed... The room looked perfectly normal, as clean as anything could get, but Clara remembered exactly where everything needed to be.

"Ryan?" She called out once more, now in full panic mode. She ran throughout the house, looking for her son. But she could find no trace. She shook as she ran to her bedroom. She quickly unstopped the brandy and poured herself a glass, throwing it back. She repeated this task before chocking back a sob. Her fingers were shaking so badly that she could barely press the right buttons on her cell phone, but eventually the call on her went through.

"999, what's your emergency?"

"Hello, Scotland Yard?"

There were many things that Clara Ecangeline, at this point, had never done.

Clara Evangeline had never gone running through the pitch black night after a murderer.

Clara Evangeline had never killed a man.

Clara Evangeline had never been afraid of her own shadow.

Clara Evangeline had never fallen in love.

_**Clara Evangeline had never met Sherlock Holmes.**_


	3. 2: Gone

"_What do you mean you can't do anything_?" Clara said, tears streaming down her face. She held herself, trying desperately not to fall into sobs and failing miserably at it. The very slow policeman, who she had been insulting and yelling at for the past quarter of an hour, sighed.

"Ma'am, there's no evidence that Mr. Hope disappeared anywhere. Nothing seems out of place-"

"Everything is out of place!" she sobbed into her hands as she watched the forensics technicians pack their things away and load them into cars. "I know! I remember! _Nothing_ is in it's correct spot!"

"I'm sorry to tell you this, ma'am, but the boy is eighteen, and he's adopted. He probably just took off and lef-"

"No, he wouldn't do that!" she snapped at him, emotions spilling over in bitter tears. "I love my son, and I know him better than-"

"There's nothing we can do, ma'am. There's no evidence that he's missing. Go get yourself a shrink or something." He replied with annoyance, shrugging her off. She sat on the front step of the manor, looking at the CSIs as they packed up their kits.

"Are you alright?" A kind voice asked. When she looked up, a middle aged man with greying hair was standing beside her. She cataloged each of his features, including a badge that read "DI Lestrade", but the most striking thing to Clara was the warmth in his muddy brown eyes.

"No." she croaked in reply. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, sitting next to her on the doorstep. He offered her a cigarette, but she declined. They sat in silence, until Lestrade spoke up again.

"You know that there's no evidence that he's missing."

"Yes, there is. You just havent found it yet." She snapped, wiping tears out of her eyes. Her make up and normally sleek hair were everywhere, and she looked like she hadn't slept in days. "You people are never able to pick out the minute details. Never have been." he groaned, rubbing his temples. He knew that she wasn't crazy; he'd met enough real lunatics to know. He gently turned the card in his pocket between his fingers, unsure whether he would be helping or hurting her by giving it to her.

"I can't help you." He said. Her head fell between her bent over shoulders, tears splattering on the pavement. "But I think that I know someone who can." She glanced up, almost in shock.

"Who?" He sighed, turning the slip of paper over in his fingers again.

"I'm going to regret this, I just _know it_." He said, handing her the business card from his pocket. "He's not a part of Scotland Yard, but he's the best person I know for these sorts of things. The tricky cases, the odd ones, the dangerous ones." She clutched the card to her chest.

"Thank you, _thank you_." She said, jumping to her feet. She grabbed her coat from Herbert, who had been out shopping during the disappearance. As she slung her pocketbook over her shoulder, the butler disappeared into the house. She ran down the charming cobblestone street, waving her hand and shouting, "Taxi!"

As she ran from him, Greg Lestrade shook his head in worry, horror at himself, and pity.

"My god, I'm going to regret this."

Clara clambered out of her cab, smoothing her blouse and her hair. She glanced at the card again, even though she didn't need to; the address still read 221B Baker street. This was the place.

She checked her composure, which was usually carefully constructed and well fortified, and then carefully rang the bell. She heard a muffled male shout, and then hurried footsteps. In seconds, a handsome man with curly dark hair, dressed in blue pajamas came to the door. Clara looked up at him with aprehension; he was almost a foot and a half taller than she was and those cheekbones could slice bread.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes of Baker street?" She asked almost timidly.

"I am." he replied. "May I show you inside?"

"Please." She replied. He dashed upstairs, trying desperatly to contain his excitement. She followed him slowly up to his flat, silently memorizing every nook and cranny of the wall paper on the way up.

"John, case!" Mr. Holmes said. Carla noticed a man, whose hair was greying and whose posture suggested military. She supposed that this was "John" and nodded politely as the curly haired man dashed down the hall, apparently to get dressed.

"Good god, you're Clara Evangeline!" "John" exclaimed, standing. She smiled, offered a slender hand to him, and noted a tear in his sweater that had been repaired with a horizontal mattress stitch; a surgical stuture.

"Yes, I am. And, you are?"

"John." He said. "John Watson. Tea?"

"Coffee, if you have it. Black, three sugars." She said. He nodded, and then set the kettle to boil.

"It'll only take a few minutes." he said, silently wondering why Clara Evangeline was standing in his sitting room. She had removed her black trenchcoat and revealed her black turtleneck and high waisted green skirt. Her dark, opaque nylons streched over her crossed legs and disappeared under her high heels. "So, what brings you to our doorstep?"

"Kidnapping. I think." she said shakily.

"It's not think, you _know_ that it was kidnapping." Sherlock said as he walked back into the parlor, running his hands over the front of his jacket. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name, I'll be needing to know it." She was a little surprised, since most people recognized her from somewhere. Then again, her face had once been plastered on the front of newspapers all over the country.

"Clara Evangeline. I'm the sole heir to the British Royal Oil Company." Recognition flashed at Sherlock from the depths of his mind palace.

"Yes, I remember your parent's case. It was very odd, since they never caught the killer, even though you were witness to the whole thing."

"Yes." she replied, shifting uncomfortably as Sherlock's eyes raked over her. "My son-"

"Adopted son." Sherlock interjected. John looked over at Sherlock with a funny look on his face.

"Adopted?"

"Obviously. She was only ten when her parents passed away in what, nineteen ninty-two?" Clara nodded in conformation. "She's old enough to have a child yes, but an adult son? Obviously adopted in his preteens, and obviously the one missing." John looked at Sherlock as if he had fish swimming between his eyebrows. Sherlock sighed. "Everyone in Britain would have heard if she'd become a mother in her teen years. Plus, if you look at the curvature of her pelvis and stomach, she clearly has not been through preganancy; there are tell tale signs in the gait and in skeletal structure. Again, obvious." John's eyes went to her lower torso and pelvic region, only to discover that Sherlock was right.

"And what about the age he was when she adopted him?"

"I'll get to that." Sherlock said with a smirk.

"So, your son has disappeared without a trace?"

"Yes." She said, their eyes locked together. "I came home this afternoon to help him move to his dorm at Oxford and he was gone. All of his things had been disturbed."

"And you dont think that he just left."

"Obviously. I know exactly how he keeps his room. He developed obsessive compulsive disorder-"

"After he witnessed his parent's murder, I'm guessing?"

"Yes." She replied.

"Oh come now, how could you have possibly known that?" John asked.

"Isn't it obvious? She said that she's the sole heir to the family business. No siblings. She was raised by another relative, most likely a grandparent. Could be an aunt or a family friend, but a grandparent is statistically more likely. Actually, it's definitely a grandparent; her posture says strict catholic school even though she's protestant."

"How can you tell?" She asked, quite intrigued by that deduction.

"Almost all devout Catholics have some sort of mark or callus on their knees from the kneelers in church. You lack this mark, so you are either protestant, or you aren't a christian at all. Cross bracelet tells me that you;re christian, so I went with the most likely scenario." Sherlock replied. "So, who would put you through a Catholic school even though you were protestant? Probably a stringent, religious grandmother, most likely the mothers side since I do recall that your paternal grandparents were dead before you were born. At least, that's what I found when I had a friend hack into the database where they kept the file. I've been touching base with your parent's case for a while, trying to figure it out in my spare time." Sherlock said. "But anyway, the locket around your neck is at least a hundred years old but yet it shows only around six years of continuous wear; your grandmother passed away six years ago, and that's when you knew you didn't have anyone left. So, you adopted a child, one who'd been through what you'd been through, and raised him until he was old enough to go to university. Am I wrong?"

"No." she replied. "My maternal grandparents were strict catholics, and my dad was protestant. Mum converted before they got married. I adopted my sun when I was twenty six, when he was twelve. His parents were murdered in front of him six months before I brought him into my home. We... we sort of fixed each other, you know? After he turned fourteen I started bringing other children in - orphans with special gifts or circumstances, you understand. If you include Ryan, I'm mother to five children."

"Going back to today." Sherlock said. "Why do you think your son was kidnapped? The police obviously dont."

"I was at a meeting with the CEO who's running the company for me, who gives me a substantial yearly allowance. I was trying to get it expanded so that the kids and I could live while the rest of the money went to Ryan, my son, for his college tuition and expenses."

"Oxford?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock rolled his eyes as she and John had a short conversation about tuition. "When I returned home, it was silent; it's never silent in my house. There's always a servant bustling around or the twins are yelling. I yelled upstairs for him, he always comes when I call. I looked for him all over, and then when I got to his room, everything was... off."

"Off? How?" John asked, scribbling everything down in a notebook.

"We all have coping systems when we deal with a trauma; mine was memorzing books." she replied. "Ryan's was developing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He had to keep his room neat, obsessivly neat. Everything had its place: his books were color coded by author and by genre and his bed was made with surgical precision. Everything had to be just right, and none of the maids were allowed in the room. I memorized everything in the room in the exact way that he kept it. When I got into his room, everything was out of order. The pictures were turned the wrong way, his bookshelf didn't have an organizational system, and there was a nick in the wood where the bookshelves had hit the floor.

"'Course, none of the techs noticed that. The good side of the lamp was facing Northwest instead of southwest, his bed wasn't made with precise hospital corners, the dust under the dresser had been disturbed, the books on his bedside table weren't in the right order; it was little things. Ryan never would have left his room like that."

"Techs?" John asked.

"I called the police. They thought I was mad."

"And then someone gave you my address so that I could help you." Sherlock concluded. "Probably Lestrade."

"Yes, it was Lestrade." She looked at the ground. "Please, can you help me? Ryan's the closest thing I have to family. I need to find him." Sherlock took a deep breath, palms and fingers placed together under his chin. "I'm willing to pay you anything." He glanced up at her.

"I require nothing for my services except a problem and the way to find the solution." Sherlock said quietly.

"But I do." John said. "A thousand dollars, plus insurance for any possession of mine that might break."

"Are you sure you don't want more? I'm worth well over six billion dollars, Doctor Watson." she replied. " And don't ask me how I figured it out that you're a doctor. You knew exactly where to look for signs of former pregnancy and you sewed up your sweater with a suture." She said.

"Not exactly a difficult deduction." Sherlock muttered. She sighed, pulling her arms around herself.

"Please." She said with her voice wavering. His eyes raked over her.

_Damaged_. his mind whirled as he learned everything about her in a second. _strict upbringing_. _Desperate_. _Intelligent_. _Good memory. Broke wrist more than once. Former gymnast. Dog lover. Foster mother. Slight OCD. Memory of an elephant. Not natural Hairline. Never been kissed. _He lingered there, not sure what to do with that information, before he pressed on. _Thirty-two. Worrier. Habitual gum chewer. Socialite. Overly attached to her family. Very logical. Size seven. Ambidextrous. High arched feet. Spends hours typing. Writer. Slightly near sighted._

Sherlock sighed, but he didn't get anything about her that told him that she was crazy, or that she was a liar.

"Interesting." He said. "Very interesting." He sat back in his chair, placing his hands under his chin. "I'll take the case." She nearly leaped out of her seat to embrace him, but thought better of it. "I'd like to see the crime scene, please." Sherlock continued with almost too much enthusiasm.

"Of course." She picked up her coat, and John politely helped her into it. Sherlock had already wrapped his scarf around his neck by the time she had buttoned the jacket.

"What? You're going now?" John asked.

"Well, I can't just sit around when there's something fun going on!" Sherlock said. Clara didn't comment; she knew that it wasn't worth it. She had wormed her way through enough political games to know when something was worth saying.

"Follow. Are you joining us, Dr. Watson?" She asked,but the doctor just pulled on his coat as Sherlock hurried her down the stairs and out of the flat.

"Taxi!" Clara cried, stopping the cab in it's tracks as all of them clambered inside.

"Where to?"

"4978 Evangeline street, Belgravia." she replied. "Get us there in fifteen minutes and I'll pay you quadruple the fare."

"Yes ma'am." The cabbie said gleefully.

"I'll have one of the maids put the kettle on." Clara said, pulling out her mobile phone and texting Herbert faster than lightning.

"Who else lives in the home?" Sherlock asked.

"Besides Ryan and I, there's Mary-Kate, the twins Karen and Katherine, little Julie, the butler, Herbert, our live-in therapist, Susan, and the maids who switch from time to time. Right now, I think it's Marilyn, Sadie, and Elise."

"Why the live in therapist?" John asked.

"I take in... Special children. Ones that have gifts, the ones that people don't want because their too old, the kids that have gone through huge traumas. Most of them need some sort of therapy."

"Gifted?" Sherlock asked. She shrugged in response.

"Some say that they're freaks. One's a psychic medium, and the twins are child prodigies in math and science. The new child that I'm in the process of adopting has early manifestations of pyromania."

"Oh, that's a fabulous idea." Sherlock said sarcastically. "Considering you live in a Victorian Mansion."

"Alright, how could you possibly have known that?" John asked.

"Well, there's the fact that her clothes smell like wood - cedar, in fact, so she has a cedar closet. You would need a very large house if you were to have one, and you're ridiculously wealthy- your coat and bag are both prototypes of Louis Vuitton. Large house, expensive, clearly a mansion. Then, there's the fact that you gave the cabbie your address. House number indicates that you live in the older district of Belgravia. That particular district is famous for it's houses built under the reign of Queen Victoria. So, Victorian Mansion. Obvious." Sherlock said.

"Fantastic!" She replied, overjoyed by the incredible talents of Sherlock.

"Don't make his ego larger, Ms. Evangeline."

"It's Clara." She replied, sending a look at John..

"How long has he been missing?" Sherlock asked.

"Officially, four hours." She said.

"Fresh crime scene?"

"Nothing was disturbed." she said. "The police looked for fingerprints, but they didn't find anything."

"The kidnappers were organized. They weren't counting-"

"They?" she asked.

"Obviously." he replied. "They weren't counting on you remembering exactly where everything was supposed to be. And they weren't counting on you hiring me." Sherlock smirked. She smirked back, appreciating his bluntness. That was very rare and refreshing in her world of lies and scandals.

"Clearly. Driver, watch for that pothole." She said, and he swerved to miss it. Sherlock was surprised; she was sitting in the seat that faced away from their destination.

"How did you know about the pothole?" she shrugged.

"I ran over it a year ago. I haven't been to this section of London for some time, and that was when I brought my youngest home." She said, crossing her legs.

"You remember that?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Yes. Just like I remember the exact orientation of your flat." She went on to rattle on about the exact cardinal direction of the windows in the sitting room, the titles of all the books on the bookshelves in order, the exact amount of space between certain items, and how the skull on the mantelpiece was obviously a male that died from blunt force trauma, because of the prominent brow bone, jaw bone, and the obviously fixed bone fragments in the left side of the cranium." Sherlock was somewhat baffled. He had underestimated her memory, and he realized that she could be rather useful in future cases.

"Interesting." He mused, hands becoming steeples one again. "Very interesting."

_Good memory_. He thought. _Long memory. Detailed memory. _**_Brilliantly_**_ detailed memory_. He straightened up a little bit.

**_Elephant's_**_ memory._


	4. 3: Crest

"Tea, anyone?" Clara asked as they stepped through the front door of her home.

"No."

"Please." John said, remembering that he had accidentally left the water boiling back at Baker Street. He texted Mrs. Hudson, and then both men followed her as she moved her hand towards the staircase.

"Follow me." Sherlock looked around the hall, absorbing every detail of the house. It was open and airy, with classic Victorian features with the lofty ceilings and pillars. All the walls had been painted white, and Sherlock was shocked at the amount of carefully covered up scuffs in the wooden floor. Original flooring from the mid to late 19th century. The old house was filled with light, from curving panes of glass above them.

Her black high heels clicked across the floor as she led them upstairs, hand clutching an ornate railing.

"May I have a look around?" he asked incredulously.

"If you please, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock; call me Sherlock."

"If you please, Sherlock." he grinned at her slyly and dashed around the corridor the stairs led up to. He found a small girl's room, filled with odd bottles of different herbs and reeked of burned sage and sweet grass, first; he supposed that this was the psychic's room. Or supposed psychic, anyway; Sherlock didn't believe in things like that. The room next to that featured two beds and bookcases, one filled with quantum physics books and the other with mathematical journals. The twin prodigies's room without a doubt. The next room was reasonably dry and barren, except for the fact that everything was black. _The girl whose parents committed suicide_, He thought. The next room he came to was a small room that was painted a light grey and had psychological posters plastered everywhere. _Therapist's room_, he mused, and then left in a hurry to the room at the end of the hall.

This one was a brilliant white, and had a set of french doors in the back, which Holmes deduced led to a small balcony. All of the furniture was black, even the vanity in the corner that appeared to be original to the house. A tumble of pale, transparent curtains hung in a neat rectangle around the bed, in a way that would hide the occupant from view. He thought this might be Clara's room, but he couldn't tell very easily; the room was so clean that it was almost frightening. He glanced at the vanity and his suspicions were confimed. On the table was a bottle of _Imperial Magesty_, the most expensive perfume in the world. The diamond in the bottle glittered in the light of the setting sun, and before he could help himself, he had pulled off the cap and taken an inhale of the contents to memorize it. There was very little of it used, but the bottle was about three years old. Only used for special occasions, then.

"Careful with that, Mr. Holmes. The bottle alone is worth around a hundred and thirty thousand quid." Clara said smoothly, heels clacking against the dark wood.

"Just trying to remember it." he replied, setting the bottle down on the table. "A gift, then?"

"Yes. There were only ten made for women, you know, and ten for men. It was my present for my thirtieth birthday, two years ago. The CEO of my parent's company had apparrently been saving it." she said, smirking at the huge, ridiculously expensive bottle of perfume.

"And you leave it out on your vanity?" She gave him a funny sort of smile.

"I assumed that my security system was impregnable, and I trust my staff."

"Clearly you should do neither." Sherlock replied.

"You're not wrong. You're not right either, but you're not wrong. I should probably have this put in my safe deposit box." she mused. patting the crystal top. "But I do love using it for special occasions." Sherlock smiled at her, before his mind returned to the case.

"The kidnappers came in through your balcony, I think." Sherlock said, examining the door handles on both sides. "Yes, definitely. They can climb."

"Fabulous." she responded, a hint of complaint and even more worry in her tone. He pretended not to hear her.

"Any fingerprints?"

"I dont think they dusted my room." she replied. "I wasnt allowed inside." Sherlock pulled a fingerprinting kit out of his pocket, and carefully dusted over the balcony. The were seven distinct sets of fingerprints, one of which he quickly matched to Clara. All but one were unfamiliar, and the one that was familiar belonged to Eloise, the maid, judging by the records that Clara brought out from a file in her desk.

"I dont know these five." she said, squinting at the dark prints and a full palm print on the ledge. Sherlock snapped a picture of the prints, and then continued through the room. He didnt find anything else.

"Where's the boy's room?" Clara gestured for him to follow her.

"I came up here to get him for Uni, but, as you can see..." she gestured to the room. It was probably the smallest room of the bunch, and very tightly packed together. There were no windows, and judging from the differences of the wood and paint fadeing, Clara was right; everything had been disturbed.

"Intriguing." Sherlock said.

"You see it?"

"Plain as the nose on your face." he replied, stooping down to look at the disturbances in the dust under the wardrobe. "Oh, yes, there was a struggle. A big one." He said. John looked at Sherlock with obvious intrigue.

"Sorry, i dont see it.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No"

"Yes." John and Clara answered at the same time. Sherlock pointed to the floor.

"See here? There are four indent marks in the wood." He said, and pointed to the small dents with a slim finger. "These match up to this bookshelf-" he pointed to the white bookshelf next to the bed. "And these match up to that one." He pointed to the smaller one across the room. "On the shelves you can see variations of color from where the book covers themselves have rubbed up against the paint. All of them were color coded. Then theres this lamp-" He pointed to the light on top of the shelf. "On white it's harder to tell, but the lamp has been turned nintey degrees. Obviously, they were put back in a hurry. The dust under the wardrobe has been disturned in the distinctive pattern of human fingers, most likely of a man, judging from the size. They had him on his stomach and he was clawing underneath the wardrobe for a weapon or something to grab onto. I'm more confidant in the latter. So, someone breaks in, pushes over the first bookcase to try to keep him in. He tries to fight them, knocking over the second bookcase and the lamp. The bulb shatters, and two of the crew take him down and try to pull him out of the room."

"-He clings to the dresser, until one of them steps on his hands?" John deduced.

"Very good, John." Sherlock replied. "So, he's pulled out of the room and probably drugged. Then, the other four or five members of the team fix up the crime scene like nothing ever happened. They used forensic countermeasures to take him alive."

"Alive?" John asked.

"If this room was this clean and a Ryan had been murdered here, what would you smell, John?" John looked puzzled. Clara nodded, her own theories making sense.

"Sorry, I've got nothing." Sherlock smirked at the heiress.

"Clara?"

"Bleach." Clara said. "And the wood would have absorbed the blood. There would have been a stain where the blood pooled. Thats why I knew it was kidnapping and not a covered up murder."

"Yes, very good. I'm very impressed, Ms. Evangeline."

"Clara." she corrected as he continued.

"This was all right before you arrived home." Sherlock said. "They knew that you would remember them if you caught them, and you would have to become a hostage too. They knew they'd launch a massive manhunt after their hides if they took you. However, they were careless. They didn't put everything back in order, and, thus, tipped you off." He said.

"What can you get about Ryan?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at the room.

_Obsessive compulsive organizer. Book lover. Straight A student. He took as step to look through a small black box. Tattered photograph... sentimental but scarcely put down. Parents murdered, Clara said; clinging to their memory. High school diploma says valedictorian. No class ring in jewelry box; size ten ring no where to be seen, wear on the ring holder; girlfriend of more than six months. No other jewelry, clean cut. No tattoos. Recently had his hair cut. Football player. Defence._

"He seems... remarkably normal and intelligent." Sherlock said. "Well rounded. He was valedictorian, had a girlfriend, clean cut, constantly wearing his class ring...And athletic. Defensive football player, correct?"

"Yes. What about the kidnappers?"

"Sloppy, for one. Probably hired." Sherlock replied. "The cover up is sloppy too; they waited for everyone to leave but they didn't do their research. If they had, they would have put everything back in exact order." he said. He glanced at the picture of the fingerprints "From the size of the prints, three men and two women. The men brought the kid down and the women probably did the surveillance and clean up. Of course, they only remembered to put on gloves once they got inside; that was a mistake. No one saw them because, of course, everyone was at work. These rich people never miss a moment to make more money." Clara pursed her lips.

"Anything else?" Sherlock noticed something that he hadn't earlier; one corner of the small rug had been slightly disturbed. He knelt down by it, before flicking the fabric up. Written in red paint was:

**CLEARER THAN WATER THICKER THAN BLOOD**

Under the painted words, a family crest was inscribed into the wood, with a phrase written underneath:

_Videlicet et sanguis, sed est ante omnia._

"That's my family crest." She said, blanching.

"Wit and blood before all else." Sherlock said. "Family motto?" she nodded. "Intelligence and Family above all else..." He trailed off, mind racing.

"This wasn't about Ryan." Clara said. Sherlock looked up at her with a funny sort of smirk.

"Oh, no, darling. This is about you."


	5. The Blind Banker: Exit Wound

"May I meet the rest of the children?" Sherlock asked. Clara nodded, not knowing how exactly that was going to help him find her beloved son.

"Follow." she said, beckoning them forward, down the stairs. John was slightly shocked by some of the very expensive things he saw, including the very real blue Faberge egg on the table in the entrence hall. She took a right turn into the parlour, and Sherlock found all four members of the Evangeline family sitting on the couch. A woman in a tailored gray blazer, pencil skirt, and black laquered heels stood in the corner. A maid stood with her, along with the butler, judging by the uniform.

"Mr. Holmes-"

"_Sherlock_."

"Alright then, _Sherlock_, these are my daughters, Mary-Kate, Karen, Katherine, and Julie." she said, motioning each girl in turn. "The woman in the grey is Susan, and the other two are my staff, Herbert and Eloise. Girls, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and His partner, Dr. John Watson."

"Is it true?" Mary-Kate asked, the first time she had spoken above a whisper in over a month. "Is Ryan missing?" Clara hesitated for a moment, which was enough time for Sherlock to reply for her.

"Yes." Mary glared at the floor, and allowed her dark make up to be smudged by a single tear. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the display of emotion. The youngest girl's little blue eyes flicked up at him through her light brown bangs.

"Who's Redbeard, Mr. Holmes?" she asked politely. Sherlock stiffened visibly; no one knew about that...

"How do you-"

"I saw it." she said. "I saw it on his doggie tag. He's running around you right now, the great, shaggy thing." Sherlock's eyes steeled, and he held his breath. _She couldn't know. She was only six years old. How could she have known? She couldn't have known. Nobody knew. _

"I'm going to go back to Baker Street and wait for the results of the finger printing." Sherlock said in a strangled sort of tone. "Nothing else to find here."

"I'll escort you out." The heiress said, ushering the two out of the room. Sherlock was silent as she walked them out.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, if my youngest brought something painful up. Julie doesnt have boundries yet. She's only six." He turned around accusingly.

"How does she-"

"I told you. She's a psychic." Sherlock looked away skepticly. "You may not believe in them, Mr. Holmes, but how else would you explain what just happened in the parlour?" He opened his mouth, and then shut it. She handed both Sherlock and John a buisness card. "Call me when you find something, please. And involve me in the investigation as much as you can. I want to help you find out who took my son."

"Of course." he replied, shaking her hand. John did the same, and Clara covertly slipped him a twenty pound note, winking. He grinned back at her.

"For the mobile phone bill." she said. His brows furrowed, and she shrugged. "I noticed the pile of bills on the end table." His eyes widened considerably, and he thanked her before following Sherlock out.

"Do you think he'll be able to find Ry?" Susan asked from the doorway. Clara stared after the detective, feeling strangely confident.

"No, I _know_ he will."

~.~.~

Several weeks later, Sherlock finally got the results he needed from the fingerprints. Lestrade had to run them on the sly, and it had taken much longer than usual. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Clara.

**Bakers Street. Come at once if convenient.**

**-SH**

Within seconds, a reply came in. Much quicker than John, he noted.

**I'll be there in 10 **

**-CGE**

Sherlock tidied up the flat a tad, knowing that there was company coming, and wondered vaguely what her middle name was as he put the kettle on. He quickly texted John that Clara was coming over, and he responded that he would pick up the shopping while Sherlock entertained her. There was a knock on the door to the flat, and then he remembered a bit of information that he had forgotten; The case of the Jaria Diamond.

Damn.

Sherlock watched calmly as the door opened. A man in full arabian battle gear jumped forward, sword drawn. Sherlock dodged it several times before he was able to land a blow with his foot to the warrior's chest. He stood straight up, having fallen back on the couch to land the blow. He straightened his hair and jacket; Clara was still coming over, after all, and that woman never had a hair out of place. Sherlock was forced to block several more blows with his bare hands on the man's forearms before the man forced him back onto the kitchen table, the sword to the detective's throat. He grimaced with the effort of holding the warrior back, and as a result kicked the man several times in the kidneys. He was able to get leverage over him, forcing the man upward at an awkward angle. The sword scratched across the table, leaving a gouge that John would not be happy with later. As Sherlock threw the assassin away, his sword knocked into one of the cabinets, creating a sizeable dent in the wood. He was able to dodge another blow just before Clara walked in in her posh suit and heels. Sherlock was almost clipped with the blade when he saw her. Clara acted quickly, grabbing a thick book from the table.

"Hey!" she shouted, causing the warrior to look towards her. She smacked him across the face as hard as she could, knocking him out cold on the floor. Sherlock huffed a bit, straightening his jacket in the mirror. He straightened his hair, dusted off his jacket, and then looked down at the swordsman with contempt for mussing his appearance.

"Well, that was quite thrilling." Clara said, grinning from ear to ear (which was surprising, considering how solemn she was a fortnight ago).

"Thank you." He said, taking the dictionary that she had knocked the warrior out with from her hands.

"Oh, think you could have fared well enough without me. As a matter of fact, you were faring quite well." she said with a winning smile, kicking the sword under Sherlock's seat. "What is it that was so urgent?"

"Ah." he said, and jumped to the table behind his chair, retrieving a small stack of legal files. He offered her a seat on the couch, which she took with thanks. He sat kitty corner from her, noting her now subdued expression.

"We ran the fingerprints. We have five people on our radar now, to pick up whenever we're able to." He said, handing her the folders. "Marah Jade, Sally Martin, Jeremiah Adkinson, Jason Whidikker, and Anthony Hanks. All of them have done time for either burglary or assault."

"This is great, that you know who took my baby, but I can feel a 'but' coming on." she said. He glared at her.

"But, they can't be picked up for the crime against your family." Sherlock said.

"Why?" She asked, now extremely confused.

"Because they're all dead. Murdered with in the last fortnight. Whidikker was only found this morning." Her body became absolute stone, and her face fell.

"Then there goes our lead."

"Not necessarily." Sherlock replied. "I'm going to help with the autopsy report and see what I can deduce from the bodies. They were all dumped where they were found, obviously so there's no crime scene to investigate. They were all just dark hallows where it was easy to dispose of a corpse." He said. "We can figure some things out about them; who would have hired them, etcetera." He already seemed tired of explaining it to her, although she clearly had a bit more intelligence than some people he knew. Clara hesitated, wondering how her question would sound and how Sherlock would react (after all, all of the situations in her head contained negative reactions).

"Yes." Sherlock said before she asked. "As long as you don't interrupt, you may be present for the autopsy." She didnt ask how he knew, figuring it was written in her body language. "I assume you know your anatomy, anyway. I doubt you could forget it."

"I couldn't forget it if I tried." She admitted. "I can't forget anything no matter how hard I try." He looked at her, his interest sparking.

"Mhm. Interesting. But, back to anatomy?"

"I took numerous biology courses at Uni." She said. "I wanted to be a doctor, but BROC wouldnt allow it, since I'm supposed to take over for Wilhelm in several years. It's too bad, I could never have forgotten a patient." Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards.

"Well, you've still got the chance. Have you told your CEO that you're going to be handing the company over to him right away anyway?"

"No." she replied, surprised. "How did you know that?"

"You've wanted to ask me that particular question for a while now." he said, smiling wryly. "In your purse, there's an advanced anatomy book, sticking out because you were reading it on the cab ride here, I imagine. That shows you know your stuff, but you haven't finished the book yet because you wouldnt have it with you if you did. Your memory allows you to memorize everything you need, after all. You wouldn't need it after you finished it because you would already know it. The fact that it's an advanced anatomy instead of a college anatomy book shows interest, but not study. You went to Oxford, obviously, it was all over the news for a few days in the early 2000's. So, you went to Oxford for human anatomy, but you were forced into business instead by the CEO of your company. However, in your jacket pocket there is a letter addressed from another college. Going back to school soon, then, most likely for your PHD so that you can become either a pediatricion or some sort of specialist. If your CEO knew about it he wouldnt allow it, so you're planning on retiring early and then giving the company back to him right away so that you can go back to school." He said, talking so fast the Clara could almost barely remember what was said.

Almost.

"You're right." She replied with a wry smile. "Wilhelm, the CEO, won't let me go back to school. I graduated with a degree in buisness, but my major was originally in the medical field. I want to be a-"

"Post mortem medical examiner." Sherlock said. "Obvious from the conversation clues. Who else would want to watch an autopsy but a student interested in post-mortems?" Clara grinned at him.

"Oh, I like you. I like you _very_ much." His grin back at her was very smug. She glanced around the flat.

"D'you mind if I hang around your flat for a while? It's a good reading environment and Wilhelm doesn't have cameras in here to the best of my knowledge."

"Of course." He replied. "So long as you don't get in my way." Suddenly, the warrior began to move again. Clara reacted fast, bringing down a nearby vase on the warrior's head. It shattered, but effectively stopped his attempts to get up.

"Mmm, that was John's." Sherlock said, slightly put out.

"He'll be compensated." She replied, pulling her book out of her bag. "We really ought to move him, though."

"Mhm." Sherlock replied. "I'll get his torso."

"I'll get his legs." She said, standing up. She crouched down and helped the detective get leverage over the bulky man, and they not-so-carefully carried him out of the door and down to the street. They unceremoniously dropped him into a rubbish bin, and headed back into the flat to find the kettle screaming.

"Oh. Tea, Clara?" Sherlock said, doubling his pace up the stairs. Clara hadn't so much as broken a sweat, and matched his pace in her five inch heels as they headed up to the living room.

"Yes, please." She sat down on the couch once again, and Sherlock returned with two cups of tea. She accepted it gratefully and was pleasantly surprised; it was the exact way she took her tea, with three sugars and a splash of cream. She leaned against the arm of the couch, opening her book.

Some time later, John bounded up the stairs.

"You took your time."Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping." He replied.

"What? Why?" Sherlock asked, looking a little annoyed that he had to look up from his own book.

"'Lo, John." Clara said, not glancing up from hers.

"Oh, hello Clara." John replied, before turning back to Sherlock. "It was because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and PIN machine." Clara looked up from her book, smirking.

"You had a row with a machine?"

"Well, sort of." he said, blushing at the sight of the very attractive woman on his couch. "It sat there and I shouted abuse at it." John looked around the apartment. Something was odd in the flat, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Have you got any cash?"

"You can take my card." He replied with an amused smirk. John reached into Sherlock's wallet, pulling out his good credit card. Clara raised her eyebrow as if to mention that she had money enough for all of them, but kept her mouth shut and drank her tea.

"You could go do it yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning, you've barely moved since I left." Sherlock and Clara smirked at each other, knowing just how untrue that was.

"And what about that case you were offered; the Jaria Diamond?" Sherlock pursed his lips.

"Not interested. Clara and I... sent him a message." He said as he snapped his book shut. John was quiet as he spied the long gash in the wood, but he glared back at him as he ran his thumb over it, and Sherlock just blinked innocently. John went to sit down again, and glared at the carpet.

"Sorry John, that was my fault." Clara said, wincing at the remains of the vase. "I bumped into it when I came in. I'll pay for the damages." She said, reaching for the wad of cash in her pocketbook.

"Great." John said begrudgingly. "Just great." Instead of taking the two hundred quid that Clara was offering him, he turned around and left the flat.

"What's got his knickers in a twist?" she asked, and Sherlock just chuckled, reaching his hand out for the money.

"I'll just slip it in his wallet for you."

"Thanks." she said, handing him the cash. He glanced back at her.

"How're you faring? I mean, since your son was kidnapped."

"You know how I've been." she said accusingly.

"I thought it would be a bit more polite to ask versus just going around and saying that you've accepted it."

"It doesn't mean I like it." She replied.

"But I didn't say that, did I?" Clara gave him a half smile, and went back to her book.

John came back some time later with huge bags full of food.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage." John said. Clara stood up to help him, setting aside her anatomy book. He set the shopping down, and waved her away.

"No, no, Clara, you're a guest."

"And currently your boss. Now pass me that damn can of beans so that I can put them away." John beamed, and quickly helped her put everything in its place. She took mental notes of where everything was, and Sherlock smirked when he saw her eyes flicking over every can in the cupboard. He had recently switched from his book to a laptop, and he went back to reading his emails after he noticed Clara helping.

"Is that my computer?" John asked in disbelief.

"Of course." Sherlock replied typing rapidly.

"What?" John asked in annoyance.

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"And you couldn't be bothered to get up and get it?"

"No, I was holding a very stimulating conversation with Ms. Evangeline at the time." He replied.

"It's password protected!"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Took him less than a minute to guess yours." Clara added. Sherlock had her time him on her cell phone; It had only taken him 17.63 seconds to guess the password.

"You're not exactly Fort Knox." Sherlock said, smirking. John scoffed, snapping the laptop closed. Sherlock pulled his fingers out of the way only nanoseconds before the laptop closed on them.

"Right, thank you." Clara watched with a small smile as Sherlock pick-pocketed John, removing his wallet. He winked at Clara, slipping the two hundred pounds she had offered inside. John sighed as he looked through several of the letters on the table.

"I need a job." he said. Sherlock pressed his hands together, thinking. He didn't stir as he quietly stated:

"Oh. Dull." John sat forward a bit, looking very embarassed to be speaking about this in front of one of the richest women in London.

"Listen... if you would be able to lend me some..." He trailed off as he noticed Clara's arched eyebrown, clearly surprised thet he wasnt asking her for money when she currently had an uncomfortably large amount of money sitting in her many bank accounts. With help (and clever manipulation of the stock market) She'd more than quadrupled her fortune in three years, although she lived like she had a net worth of only around ten million pounds. Sherlock, however, was off in his own world, not listening to John.

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank." The detective replied sharply. He stood up, grabbing his coat. He turned around to look at her.

"Clara, are you coming?"

"If you like." She said.

"Oh, you never know when you're going to need someone with money on your side." He said, grinning. Clara grinned back, following Sherlock downstairs and grabbing her own coat as she went.

~.~.~

"Right, well when you said we were going to the bank..." John said, trailing off, looking up at the ceiling with awe. They clambered up the escalator, Sherlock walking up rather than waiting for it to carry him upwards. Clara smoothed her black pencil skirt, knowing she might see someone she knew. Her close fitting white blouse was already pressed; as a posh London woman, she looked perfectly in place here.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said with a smile as he looked down charmingly at the secretary. She tapped a few keys on the keyboard.

"Yes, he's booked you. Go right on up. Floor sixty five."

"Thank you." Sherlock replied, before taking Clara by the arm. Her eyebrow rose as they climbed into the lift.

"Play along." He hissed into her ear, and she gave him a small smile. Another man, who was getting on in years, got in with them fifteen floors up.

"Ah, Clara!" he said. She smiled.

"Mr. Levine. How nice to see you."

"My investors would like a stake in your company." Clara sighed.

"Talk to Wil. He's better with business than I am."

"I thought he took your say into account." Sherlock and John listened on in interest, but Clara took no notice.

"He does, but it's rare that he listens to me and he's made me one of the wealthiest women in Britain." she said sternly. "Go to him for this."

"Perhaps we could talk in private. If your companions don't mind." Clara looked at Sherlock apologetically, and he nodded at her stiffly.

"I'll just be a moment." She said, and they stepped off the lift. "Wilkes's office, right?" After Mr. Levine nodded, Sherlock and John went the opposite direction, to find a woman dressed in full black that appeared to be another secretary.

"We have an appointment." Sherlock said. The woman glanced at her clipboard.

"Sherlock?" he nodded. The dark haired woman left her desk, before telling them it would be a minute's wait. She showed them inside, and a dark haired man stood up to greet them.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he chuckled, shaking his hand. "How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped my eyes on you?" Sherlock nodded, trying not to acknowledge his very obvious dislike of the man.

"This is my friend, John Watson, and a friend of ours should be joining us shortly." Sherlock said.

"Friend?" Sebastian said, with an amused smile.

"Colleague." John corrected. Sherlock glared at him as the third man smiled condescendingly. John instantly disliked the man as well, perhaps because he noticed that John's clothes were older and cheaper than Sebastian or Sherlock's nice suits and he looked down on him for it.

"Well, grab a pew. Coffee? Water?" he offered.

"We're alright, thank you." John replied.

"So, you've been doing well." Sherlock said. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some." he admitted with an unpleasant grin.

"Flying around the world twice in a month? That's more than some." John looked at him in confusion, as Sebastian chuckled.

"Right, you're doing that thing." he said, setting his elbow in his shining desk and pointing (rather rudely, as it can often be) at Sherlock. "We were at Uni together," he explained, "And this guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick." Sherlock commented darkly.

"He could take one look at you and tell you your whole life's story."

"Yes, I've seen him do it." John said defensively.

"He put the wind on everybody. We all hated him." Sherlock looked down and glared at the floor, gritting his teeth. _You knew what you were getting yourself into!_ He shouted in his head. "You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know if you'd been shagging the previous night."

"Play nice, Sebastian. Don't want Sherlock to screw you over like I did." Clara said coldly, glaring at Sebastian. She crossed her arms as both Sherlock and Sebastian stood up, and Sherlock noted Seb's momentary, lecherous look at her chest before his face contorted into hatred.

"I would give you an introduction, but clearly you already know my girlfriend, Clara."

"Girlfriend?" Sebastian said. This time, John kept his mouth shut, and Clara did as Sherlock had asked earlier and played along.

"Yes, girlfriend. Now, if you please, what do you need?" She asked, sitting on the arm of Sherlock's chair almost sensually. He gulped, but looked back at the curly haired detective.

"So, what gave me away? 'Round the world twice in a month? Was it a spot of ketchup that you can only get in Manhattan? The mud on my shoes?" He commented mockingly.

"No." He replied without any emotion. "I was chatting with your secretary outside. _She_ told me." Sherlock said. Sebastian chuckled without humour, prompting sherlock's unfelt smile as well.

"Well, I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in." He motioned outside. "Follow me. Ladies first." Clara sneered at him, and Sherlock grinned at the floor.

"You'll have to tell me the story of how you made him hate you." He muttered into her ear.

"Wouldn't dream of not telling it." She responded with a smile. She had found in the space of about three hours that she rather liked spending time with Sherlock; he took her mind off of Ryan. They were led out onto the trading floor.

"Sir William's office - the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" Clara asked.

"Nothing." He replied with annoyance. "They just left a little message." He let them into the trading floor, and they saw what he was talking about in seconds. Across a portait, in yellow paint, was a yellow horizontal line. Next to it on the left was a bizarre symbol that looked like a figure eight with an open top. Clara scanned the huge vault of information in her mind. She couldn't find anything about it that she could see in her imaginary files.

"Have you ever seen this before?" he asked her. She shook her head. He angled her head up with his hands, right at the graffiti. "Memorise it."

"Already done." She said, turning around and inscribing it into the air with her finger, not making a single mistake. Sherlock smiled, knowing that he would no longer needed a camera if Clara was around. Sebastian led them back to his office, and tapped the keyboard to pull up a security tape. The first minute, the ciphers weren't there, the next, they were.

"Every time a door is opened in this bank, it's logged. Every broom cupboard, every toilet."

"That door never opened." Sherlock said, looking over the tape again as it looped.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you five figures." He pulled out a cheque from his breast pocket and held it out.

"I don't need compensation, and clearly, Clara doesn't either." Sherlock said. He held her arm and they walked away.

"Did you really have to tell him I was your girlfriend?" She asked scathingly. "It'll be all over Wilhelm's office by tonight."

"Please, you should be thankful." He replied. "The second you walked in, his eyes went to your breasts, and then flicked up again. You didn't notice, you were annoyed."

"Well, that man just irks me." Clara said distastefully. "It was my meddling that cost him ten thousand quid a year ago. 'Course, he doesn't know that it was directly my fault."

"I can keep a secret." He replied with a smirk. "Now." he planted her at the entrance to trading floor. "Stay here. You're what, five foot eight in heels? Can you see both Ciphers?"

"No." she said, only able to see the one on the left. She watched as he began to dash around the room, muttering to himself. Several head popped up as he looked around like a madman. He hopped out onto the balcony, and back through the pillars and cubicles, trying to find the right angle. She moved four paces to the left, and found that she could see it perfectly.

"Sherlock!" he looked back at her, confused. She motioned for him to come over by her, and when he did, he saw that she had figured out which office it could be seen from.

"Oh, thank you." he said, slipping the name tag out of the office door, over which was labeled "HEAD OF HONG KONG ACCOUNTS."

"And somehow, I did it without all the dancing." She teased. He rolled his eyes, but took her arm again. "Shall we?"

"Where's John?"

"Watching your mad little show." John said with a warm smile, walking up to Clara and Sherlock.

"We have a lead. Come on." Sherlock said, leading them out of the trading floor and onto the lift.

"Twice around the world in a month?" John asked, scoffing. Sherlock smiled to himself, detaching himself from Clara. After they got out of the elvator, they headed for the ecalator that would lead them out of the tower. "You werent chatting with his secretary. You said that just to piss him off." Sherlock winked at John. "And the girlfriend bit. You two've barely known each other for the better part of a month. You said that to, what, make you look a bit more normal?"

"Well, I said that to annoy him as well as to to help Clara. Eyes flicked straight to her chest when she came in, but then his face twisted up in a hint of dsgust." The detective glanced back at the heiress. "He really doesnt like you at all, does he?"

"I told you, I lost him ten thousand quid. Would you like me after that?" She asked with a chuckle. Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard her.

"So, if he's attracted to her but he hates her, what better lie than have her pose as my girlfriend for ten minutes?" This time Clara laughed aloud. "As to the twice around the world in a month deduction, did you notice his watch?"

"His watch?"

"The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"And the month part?"

"The watch model is brand new. Only came out in February."

"So, do we need to sniff around here for a bit longer?" John asked, glancing around.

"Nope." He replied, obnoxiously popping the p at the end. "We've got everything we need."

"How?"

"The graffiti left at the site was a message." Sherlock said. "Written for someone at the bank working on the trading floor. We find the intended recipient..."

"...And they'll lead us to the person who sent it." John reasoned.

"Obvious."

"Well, there's three hundred people up there. How do we figure out which one it is?"

"Pillars." The detective responded shortly.

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens." Clara said. "Very few places that it can be seen. Sherlock used my height as a reference; not everyone is as tall as him. That narrows the feild considerably. The recipient has to be between five eight and six foot two, so most likely a male according to the statistics."

"Very good, Clara." Sherlock said. "You're much quicker than I thought."

"I'll take that as a complement."

"Good. You should. The message was left at eleven thirty-four last night; that tells us a lot too."

"Does it?"

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. The message was left for someone coming in at midnight." He held out the name tag that hed swiped from the office. "Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." He pushed the door to the bank open, John holding it polietly for Clara. "Taxi! Oh, and Clara, I'll need you with me all of the time for this case, now." He said.

"Why?"

"Because I had you memorise the graffiti rather than taking a picture." He said.

"You're testing me." She said as she climbed into the cab behind him and crossed her legs.

"It's what I do." He replied with a smirk. "Oh, and the autopsy's at seven in two days. Molly's keeping him on ice, since apparently there's been an upswing in domestic homicides and Molly's swamped and the morgue's understaffed."

"Molly?" Clara asked in confusion.

"The ME at St. Bartholemew's Morgue." Sherlock said. "You should have a chat with her once in a while, I think you'll find it rather thrilling. She loves to talk about cadavers."

"Sherlock." John said, warning him.

"No, it's fine, John." She said. "I originally wanted to be a medical examiner before my CEO forced me into buisness. Not my finest hour, that."

"Oh. Isn't that a little..."

"Odd for the daughter of muder victims?" She guessed. He nodded. She shook her head. "My reasoning isnt something I'll go into right now, and it's rather odd reasoning at that-"

"For normal people." Sherlock interjected. Clara nodded.

"True. Normal people don't think about things like that. But-"

"You aren't exactly normal, are you Clare?" Sherlock said. She smiled wryly.

"No, I suppose I'm not."

"Hey, buddy, are you going to give me a destination or what?" the cabbie said. Sherlock gave him an address, and then looked at his phone. Molly had told him that all of the victims had appeared to have died the same way; asphyxiation. That pointed to a single mastermind that pulled off the abduction. He chose not to say anything, preferring to tell Clara later. Right now, he had to focus on Van Coon.

Soon, they pulled up to a posh apartment building and clambered out if the cab. Sherlock went straight up and rang the bell, receiving no answer.

"What do we do now? Wait for Van Coon to come back?" Sherlock's eys flicked over the building, figuring out the layout, and smirked.

"Just moved in."

"Hmm?"

"The floor above. There's a new label, new tenant." Sherlock said, pushing the buzzer.

"They could have just replaced it." Clara challenged.

"No, no one ever does that." he shot back, slinging his arm around her again.

"Hello?" a woman's voice (Ms. Wintle, from the label) asked timidly. Sherlock smiled, looking shy and embarrassed, pulling Clara in closely.

"Um, hi, the missus and I live in the flat above you. I don't think we've met!"

"Yeah, well, I've only just moved in." Sherlock threw a smug glance at John before looking down, seeming bashful. Clara played along, smiling prettily.

"Actually, my idiot of a husband locked our keys up in our flat."

"D'you want me to buzz you in?" Sherlock nodded, grimacing.

"Yeah, if it's not to much trouble. Oh, and can we use your balcony?"

"Excuse me?"

~.~.~

"Clara, come on!" Sherlock yelled. Clara sighed, looking apologetically at Mrs. Wintle (since Sherlock had unceremoniously exposed her as being married) and dropped into Sherlock's waiting arms. He caught her with ease, setting her on the balcony with him.

"Thank you." she said, straightening her skirt.

"No problem." He said. He glanced over the edge of the building, before focusing on the sliding door. He tugged on it, and it slid open.

"Careful." Sherlock said as he went in before her. She carefully stepped into the apartment, heels treading very quietly on the carpet. They were now in a spacious living room decorated very well, but something seemed just a little... off.

"Empty..." Sherlock said. Clara was very on edge as she followed him in. Something just wasn't right about this place.

"Sherlock? Clara? Are you alright?" Sherlock glanced inside the bathroom, before turning to the bedroom doors. He jiggled the handles.

"Locked." He took a stance to break it open, but she whipped a pin out of her hair, knelt down, and picked the lock in mere seconds instead. Sherlock stared at her, and she grinned.

"What? I had a stringent guardian after my parents died. You didn't think that I learned to pick a lock?" He didn't reply as Clara opened the doors.

"Yeah, any time you want to let me in!" John called, clearly a bit annoyed. Sherlock stared calmly at the bullet wound in Edward Van Coon's temple.

"Clara, you may want to let John in." He looked a little closer at the very curious looking woman on his left. "And maybe phone Scotland Yard while you're at it."


End file.
